She would stoop forward
Bent nearly double
On the pillow
And listen…
Children still groggy
Going to school
Their keds worn feet
Making a rhythm
Women would clatter buckets
Or utensils
Men rush from markets
With leaves of spinach or cabbage
Trailing
She could mark time then…
With closed eyes
The darkness adding to her vision
That little girl…
Fond of ‘gur’ and everything sweet
On a doctor’s bicycle
Rumbling on the village roads
The Father
To the sacred fire
Marriage vows
And the metropolis…
Summer gone too soon
Drifting to slumber
On the heavy bronze ware
Dreaming of unknown magic
In those thick dust-coated texts
Pens lying in wait
Of creating wonder
The ink spilling
To blur all…
Engulfing winter
Despite all warmth
Of bed…and home
The vernacular newspaper
Now within reach…
A Silhouette !
Then it must be dusk
Sundown soon…
Shadow ? Illusion ?
Or her younger self
A magnificent halo
In blinding splendor
Her blood
Her very own
All around
Lay books and volumes
Words and letters
Of those long forgotten dreams
Awakened
Coming to life…
The Phoenix
Had risen
From its very ashes
As in the legend…